London's Stations, or, The Mystery of the Invisible Editor

For many months now, we have been invisible.

Why? For what possible purpose, for what conceivable intent, could this be the case?
There are no good replies... (Remorse is requisite. It is duly laid out, here, with penitential heart and truthful spirit.)

...Save for this: Lost in London. We (part of the newly functioning UK branch of Creative Works Int'l Media) know the train stations very well. They are a nice, fixed point in the ever-turning wheel of the city; they are magnetic, and deceptively spaced. A ten-minute wander in any direction can, at times, lead one to half a dozen stations. On the other hand, a three-hour ramble can lead one to precisely not the spot one had hoped to find. Lurking in second-hand bookshops. Market research, incognito. And such summer schemes.

Why incognito? --Valiantly, we go forth. Valiantly, we persist. (Despite that once the fabled spot is found, 'market research' often takes a backseat to grovelling among old children's books. Old travel guides. Old oddities, of diverse sorts.)

Valiantly, we find our way back to the station, having not discovered it: the secret to the perfect children's book. It is, after all, the new Philosopher's stone?

Join us, and see--

Details of our new forthcoming contests to follow.

Lost, and Found

I apologize for my unwieldy absence; I've been away, and relocating to London, where I shall hope to sleuth about the literary scene on behalf of my fellow editors with equanimity. And, doubtless, walk into a great many passers-by.

In the process, I seem to have forgotten Dr. Johnson's dictionary--still under the bed, this time in my old house. A great pity indeed.

But all is not lost! I have had a hint that great news is ahead. Please watch this space, for a grand adventure unfolds...But how do I know?

...It buzzes, within, this sense--clear and qualmless as any bell. See? If you can't beat them, join them: words are fluid, as is language itself. Perhaps someday we shall communicate purely by images 'sent' to each others' brains. A great pity, one feels, indeed. For without words, without the weight and heft of them...

Let's just leave it at that for this evening, shall we? And, back to the pondering-board as one contemplate a wordless life. A human existence, or no?

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